


Pale, Beloved

by blanketed_in_stars



Series: 52 Weeks of Wolfstar [51]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Full Moon, M/M, Werewolf Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:29:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5517128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three full moons, and Remus, alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pale, Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> Week 51
> 
> Title from [The cold earth slept below](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174396) by Percy Bysshe Shelley

16 October, 1997

 

“Is there—er,” Tonks says, looking at the naked lightbulb and the floor and the peeling gold-and-blue striped wallpaper, “is there anything you—need?”

Remus supposes he should be grateful that she’s even talking to him today, and he is, deep down. Very deep down. But his aching head prevents him from saying so. He smiles, hoping it doesn’t look like a grimace. “No, thanks.” He gestures at the door. “I’ve already done the inner enchantments and all. Everything’s ready to go.”

“You don’t want any tea?” Tonks jokes, now studying the bricked-over section of wall where a window used to be.

Remus shakes his head. “I’ll see you in the morning, shall I?” He gives another smile. It feels wrong. “No need to worry as long as the sun’s up.”

“Yes,” Tonks says, “right.” She nods, smiles, looking just as awkward, and leaves.

The single room is smaller without her despite the anxiety her presence brought. Alone, the bare walls—there is no furniture, nothing, the floor is simply cement—encroach until Remus feels trapped. An animal with no way out.

And he is, he is an animal, which makes it worse. Alone with his prickling skin and molten bones. Left by himself, though it’s his own choice.

An hour and a half passes before he moves, his rear end sore from the hard concrete. He switches to lying flat on his back, spread-eagle, in the center of the room. A bit dramatic, but he feels less isolated and more as if he is simply part of the room itself. Moony has been dead for almost sixteen months, and now Remus vanishes, too.

 

14 December, 1997

 

Tonks dithers on the doorstep, her fingers picking at the fraying hem of her coat. “Are you sure it’s warm enough?” she asks for the third time.

“Quite sure.” Remus waves her on. “Go enjoy the night. It’s supposed to snow.”

Tonks nods, but she doesn’t leave. “It doesn’t feel right, leaving you alone at this time of year.”

Remus sighs. He’s touched, but there is that growl waiting in the bottom of his lungs, reminding him that it’s already starting to grow dark. “It’s not really time yet, you know. There’s still over a week until the holidays start.”

Her eyes shine with the brightness of a secret, though Remus hasn’t let on that he already knows—he saw the books when he went looking for his missing sock. He won’t tell her. Christmas is still Christmas, even now, and she must be allowed a few surprises.

“Go on,” Remus presses. “I’ll be fine.” When she leaves, he breathes in deep, and tells himself the lie again, pretending that it is enough.

 

11 February, 1998

 

“I thought I’d stay,” Tonks says, not even pretending to move towards the door. “We’ve got hours.”

“Usually you’ve cleared out by now.”

Astonishingly, Tonks looks guilty. “Sorry about that.” She shakes her head. “I—well, it’s taken me long enough, but I did some research, and—I suppose I’ve been an idiot.” She bites her lip, smiling. “Hopefully you don’t think I’m too prejudiced.”

Remus blinks at her. “Prejudiced? No.” He shoves away the thought of how much she looks like her mother when she’s nervous, never mind that their faces have never been less similar than they are today. “Just a little uneducated. I’m glad you’ve come round.” He pats the floor next to him.

Tonks sits, leaning her head back against the wall. Wine-dark curls catch in her necklace and pull the chain out from her skin; she fixes it absently, looking across the room at nothing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“About how wrong I’ve been,” she says. She wouldn’t meet his eyes in the beginning, either, but now the way avoids his gaze seems unintentional. “You could have. I would have believed you. Instead I’ve been leaving you by yourself all these months, like—like you’re diseased and it’s catching.”

She says the last bit hesitantly, but she says it. Remus is grateful. There’s rarely a point to pretending the wizarding view of werewolves is anything less than vile, and he’s glad Tonks sees it. But he only says, “It is catching.”

“You know what I mean,” Tonks tells him. “You should have told me I was being ridiculous.”

Well, that’s one word for it, Remus thinks, and not the one he would have chosen. But he sets that thought aside, too, since it’s only the moon talking. And why didn’t he tell her, after all? The answer comes to him after a moment. He doesn’t have to think very hard. “It was hard,” he says quietly. “I’m not easy to be around on days like this.”

She says nothing for several seconds. “You let Sirius near you.”

It must mean something that even after months and months, that name still has the power to drive a stake of ice into Remus’s heart. He reaches for a good explanation, one that will make her happy, but with his tendons already feeling stretched, he can’t quite find it. And would he ever be able to, even half a month from now? That is death, he thinks, when it comes too soon there is no happiness in it. “He’s different,” Remus tells her. “You know that.” He kneads his calf with the palms of both hands, not that it helps. She’s still not looking at him. “He just—barged in, and wouldn’t leave me alone. I didn't have a choice but to let him near me.”

“Well,” she says, “I’d like to help.”

“Tonks.” She meets his eyes. “You help me every day.”

“Just not these days.”

He sighs, and the sound rattles in his bones. “No.” The pull of the moon makes his breath painfully short for a moment, although there are still several hours left, and he puts his head in his hands. If Sirius were here they would play cards, or tell stories, or just lay down together, Padfoot and soon-to-be-Moony. And Remus knows, he _knows_ Tonks is offering the same comforts, even if she doesn’t know exactly what to say—but just as death comes too soon, this has come too late, and he doesn’t think he can accept.

A soft, uncertain hand touches his shoulder. “Remus?” When he doesn’t jerk away—she doesn’t know how hard he has to work not to—she squeezes. “If you’d like me to leave, it’s perfectly f—”

Remus shakes his head too quickly and it makes him dizzy. “Don’t leave.” He doesn’t mean it to sound desperate like that, only—well, he is a bit desperate. He reaches up and holds her hand even though his palms are sweaty, because she tethers him, unwilling though he is, to the earth and his own body. Helps him resist the tide. “Don’t,” he repeats, his throat suddenly dry and his eyes just as suddenly wet.

If Tonks sees, she doesn’t comment. “I’m not going anywhere,” she promises.

They sit there through the hours as the moon swims slowly to the surface of the sky, and then Remus tells her in a slightly shaky voice that he’s grateful, but she should go. He will see her tomorrow. So she shuts the door behind her.

And he lets go of the humanity he’s been scraping over himself, because no one is around to be human for—he grits his teeth and watches his muscles knot under his taut skin, feels his bones pop and crack and shift, screams as his mouth becomes a thing made for killing. The moon rips him open, reveals him, yellow light on yellow fangs—

—And he thinks, with his last coherent thought, of his solitude here and the utter agony of it all, worse even than his contorting frame, the anguish of becoming his truest self without anyone to help, only the glare of the moon staring down, down.

**Author's Note:**

> Thine eyes glow’d in the glare  
>      Of the moon’s dying light;  
>           As a fen-fire’s beam  
>           On a sluggish stream  
> Gleams dimly—so the moon shone there,  
> And it yellow’d the strings of thy tangled hair,  
>      That shook in the wind of night.
> 
> —[The cold earth slept below](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174396)


End file.
